


The Great Cinnamon Incident

by withcoffeespoons



Category: Daredevil (TV)
Genre: Christmas Fluff, Fluff, M/M, Mistletoe
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-30
Updated: 2015-11-30
Packaged: 2018-05-04 03:50:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,193
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5319338
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/withcoffeespoons/pseuds/withcoffeespoons
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Karen decorates the office for Christmas.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Great Cinnamon Incident

“ — and I’m sure this has to be a fire hazard. Give me five minutes, I’ll find some building codes, never mind my eyes, that it’s violating.”

 Foggy, mid-rant, catches Matt’s wince when he enters the office, and for one absurd moment, he wonders if Matt can _hear_ Christmas decorations. They’re certainly loud enough, all tinsel and metallic garlands winding through the Venetian blinds, and flashing multicolored lights casting an ominous glow around Karen’s desk.

 “What is that, cinnamon?” Matt asks, and it suddenly makes more sense. It’s a question that Foggy knows is rhetorical, for Karen’s benefit. There’s no mistaking the smell punching them in the face.

 “Oh, the wreath,” Karen says brightly. “It was on sale.”

 “It would have to be,” Foggy remarks. It’s an ugly thing, pinecones held together by sparse webbing. Red glitter and powdery cinnamon fall from it whenever the office door swings.

 Matt sneezes heavily, the force of it nearly dislodging his glasses.

 “Okay,” Foggy says, “that settles it.” Like he needed a reason.

 He takes one for the team and grabs the offensive thing from the door. He’s going to smell like cinnamon for the rest of his life, and he’ll be finding glitter in his suit for an awkward amount of time to come, but drastic times call for drastic measures. He jerks the window open, a blast of cold air giving him a shiver. With a quick glance downward, he drops the wreath, watching with satisfaction as it lands dully in the snow below.

 “Oh my god, Foggy.” Karen stares, mouth agape.

 “Did you just—” Matt sounds almost impressed.

 Foggy shuts the window and dusts his palms off over Karen’s head. She flinches, good-natured, her objection turning into a very mature slap-fight.

 “Care to fill me in on this apparently eye-searing scene?” Matt says, leaning on his cane as though he has all the patience in the world.

 Foggy knows better, not that he’s planning on testing him. “Karen decorated,” Foggy says, falsely bright. “For Christmas.”

 “It’s not even Thanksgiving,” Matt observes.

 “No kidding.”

 Karen’s eyes roll so hard Matt must be able to hear it, Foggy thinks. “This whole office reeked of clinical depression.”

 “And somehow plastic pine boughs and tinsel are supposed to help with that?” Foggy asks.

 Matt laughs, a bit nasally after the Great Cinnamon Incident.

 “Just for that,” Karen mutters, “I’m not telling you where I’m hiding the mistletoe.”

 “M-mistletoe?” Foggy tries not to blush—curse his pale complexion.

 Karen hums in the affirmative. “You’ll find it. It’ll be there,” she promises. “Waiting.”

 The mistletoe turns out to be right above Matt’s chair.

 “Oh, come on,” Foggy mutters. “That’s not even fair!” he shouts to Karen.

 “You found the mistletoe,” Matt says, and it’s not even a question.

 “Don’t tell me you could smell it,” Foggy says quietly.

 A smile tilts Matt’s mouth. “Mistletoe doesn’t have a smell.” He pauses to lick his lips, and adds, “Your—your heart sped up when you walked in the room.”

 Foggy’s breath catches.

 “And, uh. Again just now.”

 “Yeah, uh. That one I noticed.”

 Matt’s trying to look relaxed. He leans back in his chair, elbows on the arm rests. But Foggy knows it’s all a show. He knows Matt, can read the line of tension strung through his muscles.

 “We don’t have to,” Foggy hedges. “We’ll just—just tell Karen…”

 “No,” Matt dismisses. “That’s ridiculous.” He stands up suddenly, and Foggy is sharply reminded that Matt is a full inch taller than he is—because he’s _right there_. He just blinked for a _second_ , Christ, Murdock.

 It hits Foggy with some absurd delay, why Matt is breathing the same air as him. “Oh, you’re—”

 “Merry Christmas, Foggy,” Matt says, and his smile is just soft enough to be serious, his lush lips curving as he closes in. Matt’s not wearing his glasses, and Foggy’s staring, he must be, because he can see his eyelashes before they blur into proximity, and then Matt’s lips are touching his and he knows his pulse must be betraying how cool he definitely _isn’t_ in this moment.

 Matt’s about to pull away when Foggy’s brain catches up.

 He doesn’t let Matt go, chases after him, holding his jaw with one hand, and Matt stumbles in surprise, and Foggy’s heart is still racing, but he really doesn’t care because he can have the rest of forever to regret this but right now, he’s kissing Matt Murdock, and he’s not going to waste it.

 He’s kissing Matt Murdock.

 Under mistletoe.

 Because that’s all it was supposed to be—"oh, Jesus,” Foggy curses, stumbling back, and he’s not sure if it’s panic or something else. He should know, he thinks, but he doesn’t.

 “Yeah, no,” Matt says, pulling him back in. Instead of kissing him, he presses their foreheads together, the act somehow even more disorienting than the kiss. “I wasn’t expecting that.”

 “It...doesn’t have to happen again,” Foggy says, swallowing.

 “Didn’t say that.” Foggy can’t hear heartbeats, but he’d bet money that Matt’s is pounding.

 He pulls away, trying to figure out if he’s dreaming. He hasn’t had this dream since their first year of law school. Well, not _this_ dream because Karen is still there somewhere, and she’s new.

 Matt’s grin falters a little, and Foggy realizes he’s been staring, his brain working too fast for his words to form. Finally, he manages a quiet, “Okay. Let’s—uh, let’s talk about this later.”

 “Are you two done making out?” To her credit, Karen’s cheeks are only slightly pink.

 “Client?” Matt asks, groping for his glasses. Automatically, Foggy reaches for them and meets him halfway. Matt’s mouth quirks in a grateful smile, and Foggy touches Matt’s elbow. It’s a dance they know all the steps to, and just like that, Matt’s game face is back on.

 “No,” Karen answers knowingly. “But that was kind of...more than I was expecting.” She says it without blushing, and Foggy knows exactly how to exact his revenge.

 Or show her his thanks; he’s not sure which.

 “Hey Karen,” he says. Her gaze, when she fixes it on him, is wary. “Come here,” he continues.

 “What?”

 “Just—come here.”

 Karen steps forward like a trust fall.

 Matt grins at him, and Foggy’s never been so grateful for some genuine best friend senses because he has no doubt they’re on the same page here.

 “Look up.”

 He sees the moment she realizes the trap he drew her into, wariness solidifying into companionable irritation. “Foggy—”

 He follows Matt’s lead, each pressing a kiss to Karen’s cheeks. Her shoulders pull in tight, and as though they left matching stains, her cheeks blush red. Foggy smiles as if to say _my work here is done._

 “I’m leaving them up,” Karen mutters mutinously, turning a neat 180 returning to her desk.

 “I’m not sure that’s a bad thing,” Matt remarks.

 “Maybe not,” Foggy admits. “I mean, it worked.”

 “What did?” And Matt’s still got those damn glasses up like a shield.

 “The mistletoe. I can admit to some holiday cheer.”

 Matt melts into a smile.  "She's not getting that wreath back, though."

"Oh, god, no," Foggy agrees.


End file.
